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LOUISE WARREN McMILLAN 

From an Oil Painting by Jos. T. Bill 








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PRINTED BY THE J. W. BURKE COMPANY 
MACON, GEORGIA 
1951 




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COPYRIGHT 1951 
BY 

LOUISE WARREN McMILLAN 


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CONTENTS 


Page 

The Amateur . 1 

Three Poems to Poetry: 

Why _____ 2 

How . 4 

when .ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ! 5 

Memory . 6 

Fait Accompli . 7 

Middle-Ground Road . 8 

Deserted Garden . 10 

’Til We Meet Again ..... 11 

Around the World and Home Again . 12 

His Duty Done . 14 

The Visitor . 15 

Winter Honey-Suckle . 16 

The Shirker . 17 

Easter Morning . 18 

Red-Birds . 19 

Summer Rain . 20 

Flowers Are Like People . 21 

Tongues in Trees . 22 

Three Poems to Cynthia: 

California Flower . 24 

Heart-Ache . 25 

Sublimation . 26 

The Mourning Dove .. 27 

The Urn... 28 

The Church on the Hill. 29 

Faith .....-.. 30 

Layman’s Advice. 31 

Idea . 32 

Inspiration . 33 

To Tschaikovsky. 34 

Heirlooms .-... 35 

Treasures for All. 36 

Forethought . 37 

Spider Lilies . 38 

The Hunters.- 39 

Late Afternoon . 40 

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• • 






















































THE AMATEUR 


Ev’n tho’ the song she needs must sing 
Should ne’er appear on printed page, 
Ideas she would muse upon 

The mindfulness of none engage,— 

They still would hold for her: 

Sweet sublimation of desires, denied; 
A cherished dream,— 

Its unattainability yet undecried; 

A cup to catch the over-flow 

Of joy that needs must emanate 
From deep appreciation of 

All that is good in man’s estate; 

A game of syllables and sounds 

To play when days are grey and long, 
When sometimes, paradoxically, 
Seemingly there is no song. 

The amateur, enamored of 
His work, forever wooing it, 

Asks nothing in return beyond 
The sheer delight of doing it. 


(1) 


Three poems to poetry: 

WHY HOW WHEN 
WHY 

Someone inquired: why do you string 
Together verses one by one ? 

And this she pondered, wondering 

From whence her love of song had come. 
In far-off days when time stood still 
And all was new and wonderful, 

Her own adventures, strangely, were 
In story-books they read to her: 

Deep down within a shady wood 
She found a violet blue, 

‘Its stalk was bent, it hung its head 
As if to hide from view’; 

One day she walked with Lizzie to 
The summit of a gentle hill, 

‘There all at once she saw a crowd, 

A host of golden daffodils’; 

She watched beside her window-pane 
The snow-flakes falling from the sky, 
Thought ‘flurries of the snow-birds were 
Like gusts of brown leaves whirling by’; 
And often coming home from school 
She paused at the blacksmith’s door 
To see ‘the burning sparks that fly 
Like chaff from a threshing floor.’ 


(2) 


Did the bards of old make audible 
The airy voices to her ear 
And cause the subtle vision of 

The inward eye to be more clear? 

She sees the rhythmic wave of wind 

That sweeps the field of growing grain, 
The rhythm of the river 

Flowing onward to return in rain. 

She hears the lyre within the brook, 

The song of wind, of storm and sea, 
And is aware that all creation 
Is but poetry. 


(3) 


Three poems to poetry—(Continued) 
HOW 

She needs must waken early, spend 
A few begruding hours 
To set her house in order, to 
Bedeck it with fresh flow’rs. 

Then next she notes the beauty of 
The new green on the trees, 

The fleecy dogwood swaying in 
The brisk but balmy breeze. 

She then must tune the strings of thought 
To nature’s joyful roundelay, 

Forgiving and forgetting enmity, 

Rejoicing in the day. 

Created song does but reflect 
The soul of him who singeth it, 

And so if joyful song be sung, 

The mind must sing from which ’tis wrung. 


( 4 ) 


WHEN 


’Tis true her room alone contains 

A charm for her: the fire-light’s glow; 

Old furniture and paintings that 

Were once her mother’s—long ago; 

Her shelf of books whose authors are 
Companions, constant, always there; 

The record-player, ever ready 
To provide sweet tunes for her; 

But more than meager furnishings 
Are friendly faces—these she deems 

Most decorative of the space 

Within the four walls of her home. 

But sometimes solitude is deep, 

Then she must dream—not as in sleep 

But in a waking dream of many 

Thoughts of things that may not keep. 

The victory in his who can, 

When friends and dear ones are away, 

Turn inward to find surcease from 
The languor of the lonely day. 


MEMORY 


One must never call retreat they say, 
Look forward, be intent upon 
The urgency of future deeds, 

Achieving goals yet to be won. 

But when the spring comes back to bring 
The blue of hyacinths can you 
Forget an erstwhile lovely garden 
Wherein they and violets grew? 

And when the scent of Mareschal Neils 
Is once again within the air 
Can one forget an ancient porch, 

The trellised vine of rose there ? 

Magnolias bathed in moonlight, 
Blooming high against a silver sky. 
Inevitably shall recall 

Enchanted nights of days gone by. 

O gentle past that seemed to verge 
On fairy-land, remain always, 

For mem’ry is an anchorage 

For pleasant thoughts of other days. 


( 6 ) 


FAIT ACCOMPLI 

(A thing already done) 

Being grateful for the gift of life, 

She wondered how she might include 
Within her own life something to 
Bespeak for aye her gratitude. 

Perhaps one’s written memoir would 
The fragment of a truth portray, 
Recorded reminiscences 
A record of the day convey. 

But days were full and time was fleeting, 
Leisure for her cherished task, 

Like a wil-o-the-wisp, was e’er before her, 
Never quite within her grasp. 

But ah (she mused), why fret, is not 
A portion of infinity 
Dealt out into the hands of all 

(Though often held unwittingly) ? 

As all things pass but to return 
And nothing ceases utterly, 

So influence—mere, intangible,— 
Continues through eternity. 


MIDDLE-GROUND ROAD (IN 1910) 


Magnos homines virtue metimur 
non fortuna. 

The farmer and his daughter drive 
Beyond the outskirts of the town 
Toward where his lovely acres lie 

Along the road called Middle-Groun’. 

The distance isn’t very great 
But as the team is slow of gait, 

The ancient surrey with its load 
Moves leisurely along the road. 

’Tis spring, the fields are newly plowed, 
The orchards gaily blossomin’; 

The woods are decked with dogwood and 
Entwined with yellow jasamin. 

The oaks before the Roberts home 
Hang purple with wisteria bloom; 

And there the garden blooms with quills, 
Blue hyacinths and daffodils. 

They pass the path to Little’s Spring, 

A place wherein the forest heaves 
A silence deep, disturbed by only 
Little birds among the leaves. 

They near the ancient homestead where 
The farmer spent his days when young, 
The grove of ancient water-oaks 
With hanging moss and ivy hung. 


’Twas here the enemy encamped 
Upon his march down to the sea; 
’Twas here the master called his slaves 
Into the grove and said: you’re free. 
From here the farmer, in his youth, 
Forsook the country of his birth; 

In foreign countries studied music, 
History, philosophy. 

And when eventu’lly the land 
Fell to the inexperienced hand 
Of him who read of Schopenhauer, 

Of Goethe, Schiller hour on hour,— 
Poured o’er Napoleanic battles: 

Jena, Moscow, Austerlitz,— 

Who at the organ needs must play 

The fugues of Bach, the tunes of Lizst, 
And at a period in which 

The way of life was new and strange, 
When all groped for a way to cope 
With time’s irrevocable change,— 
Plantations vanished with the wind 
And he, in indignation, found 
His lovely acres were but few 

Along the road called Middle-Ground. 

With even mind he tells his child: 

True happiness comes from within, 
Acquiring wealth is not the goal 
That man must ever strive to win. 


DESERTED GARDEN 


Alone I wander in your garden, 

Seeing there the fine array 
Of summer’s last bright flowers 
Blooming colorf’lly along the way. 

I muse upon the fact that you, 

With only your own tender hands, 
Have fashioned from this bit of earth 
A veritable fairy-land. 

The grass you scattered underneath 
The fig tree, spreading over-head, 

Is now a soft green carpet and 

The borders are your flower-beds. 
The crimson glow of salvia, 

The orange flame of marigold, 

The cloud of bright blue daisies, would 
That you were here, dear, to behold. 

Why must you study botany 
Within a class-room far away, 

And in your absence how can even 
Flowers be so bright and gay? 


(10 ) 


TILL WE MEET AGAIN 


Along about the time when you 

Were turning sweet sixteen, my dear, 
Somehow you alawys seemed to like 
To wear gardenias in your hair. 

Each day you plucked a blossom, placed 
It in your shining tresses where 
It nestled, glad that fate had ruled 
That it should lie and languish there. 

And now beside your picture 

Smiling sweetly here beside my chair, 
Somehow I like to keep gardenias 
Leaning there against your hair. 


( 11 ) 


AROUISiD THE WORLD AND 
HOME AGAIN 


His orders came, he went away 
(For ages, seemingly, was gone) ; 
Returned, soon to depart, alas, 

For parts unknowable, unknown. 

Within the garden robins chirped 
Among the oak trees’ leafy boughs, 

But somehow springtime did but emphasize 
The sadness that was ours. 

En route into the nearby city, 

Lingering along the way 
Gave time to play, half-heartedly, 

A game that children like to play. 

Throughout the night the distant trains 
With wailing whistles thundered by, 

And each did seem to force the other 
Farther on and far away. 

The silvered surface of the sea 
Was smooth and calm as calm could be, 

But through the boundless deep there were 
The weapons of the enemy. 

The task was hard in far-off places; 

O’er the dark and wild terrain 
One oft must wander many miles 
Some simple item to obtain. 


(12 ) 


At last the captive land was free, 

And from its shores the braves embark; 

But flags of war were yet unfurled, 

The clouds yet heavy, low and dark. 

Above a far-flung wilderness 
The banner of the rising sun 

Was seen afar by those who came 
For duty that must needs be done. 

At last the precious peace was won, 

The happy homeward trek begun: 

From far-off, foreign seas and sounds 

Were sailing vessels homeward bound. 

Then suddenly one morning as 
Another day was dawning o’er 

The hills of home one wakes to hear 
Familiar footsteps at the door. 

Ah, there he stands, his duty done. 

Be proud, all mothers, of a son 

Who, at the country’s call would give . 

His all that freedom still might live. 


( 13 ) 


HIS DUTY DONE 


I watched you mow the lawn to-day 
And, watching, was enchanted with 
The sunlit shades of green upon 
The velvet smoothness of the earth. 

In places where the trembling trees 
Created areas of shade, 

The shadowed surfaces contained 
The cooler, softer green of jade. 

The scent of grasses, freshly cut, 

Was pleasant, too; but ah, to me, 
The wonder of it all, my dear, 

The thought of which brings ecstacy, 
Is that you’re safely home again, 

And now, before me I may see 
You there, not fancifully as 
Of yore, but in reality. 


( 14 ) 


THE VISITOR 


The guest arrived, remained awhile, 
Departing, left within her wake 
The mem’ry of a soul whose thirst 
For beauty no amount could slake. 

The flowers in the garden and 
The budding trees about the door, 
The singing birds, the April skies 
Were each a source of joy to her. 

But ah, fair guest, you’re unaware 
That you, within yourself, possess 
A loveliness of spirit which 
Is beauty at its very best. 


( 15 ) 


WINTER HONEYSUCKLE 


The petals of camellias are 
Exquisitely symmetrical; 

The colorful azalea is 
Conspicuously beautiful. 

The judas tree, with purple hung, 
The dogwood shining in the sun 
Or white against the forest green 
Are wondrous sights to look upon; 

But the tiny winter honeysuckle, 
First sweet breath of early spring, 
Excites a gladness in the soul 
That finer flowers do not bring. 


( 16 ) 


THE SHIRKER 


I shall begin to sew, she said, 

For spring is truly here, 

And like the trees I too must have 
A garment new to wear. 

But when beyond my window-pane 
I see azaleas bloom again 
Against a ground of emerald green, 
How can I sit and sew within? 
When lilac buds are bursting into 
Clusters of delicious bloom 
And April skies are fair and blue 
How can one sit and sew a seam? 
My row of flow’ring shrubs is fast 
Becoming a delightful mass 
Of mingled pastel colors, far 
Too lovely to forego, alas! 


( 17 ) 


EASTER MORNING 


The forest floor beside the river’s rim 
Would be abloom, she knew, 

For was this not the season when 

The wild, white lilies bloomed anew? 

Beyond the stretch of stately pines, 
Below the old artesian well, 

She came into the forest she 

Had ever known and loved so well. 

Here in the cool, cathedral woods, 
Beyond the reach of human sound, 
Beside Ogeechee’s waters, once 
Again the lilies fair she found. 

O wondrous lilies of the wood-land, 

As the stars the heav’ns adorn, 

You glorify the paths of earth, 
Commemorate the Easter Morn. 

You pass away, but lo, with spring 
You have arisen here again, 

Arrayed in robes of lovliness 
Yet neither do you toil nor spin. 

The river of one’s years attains 
The ocean of eternity 
And you, beside the wid’ning waters, 
Promise immortality. 


( 18 ) 


RED-BIRDS 


My porch is pleasant with the shade 
Of pink mimosas overhead, 

And peaceful with a quiet view 
Of elms along the avenue. 

I sit and knit and wonder if 
The passing seasons render me 
Content to be concerned with only 
Birds in a mimosa tree. 

’Twas in the early part of May 
Two cardinals arrived one day, 

And like a pair of engineers, 

Absorbed in serious affairs, 

Surveyed the clump of ivy leaves 
Beneath the over-hanging eaves, 
Concluded that in all the town 
No nicer home site could be found. 
Beneath mimosa blooms they mated, 

Built a wondrous nest and waited 
For the birdlings to appear 
From three small eggs that nestled there. 
Ere long three yellow mouths were seen 
Uplifted there against the green; 

And soon young wings were learning how 
To flutter to the nearest bough. 

Oft when I hear a bird at dawn, 

I wonder if he’s one of three 
Whose home was underneath the eaves 
Beside the sweet mimosa tree. 


( 19 ) 


SUMMER RAIN 


Come faster, harder gentle rain drops, 
Drench the drooping flowers; they 
Are withering away but for 
The want of your refreshing showers. 

Ev’n the sweet petunias, always 
Blooming graciously, of late 

Have languished ere the buds have blossomed 
To the flower’s full estate. 

The phlox and daisies, too, would fain 
Unfold their petals to the sun, 

But with the burning heat of day 

Their heads are bowed ’til day is done. 

Hark, hear the rumble of the thunder 
From the rain clouds rolling by; 

The erstwhile drooping flowers soon 
Will lift their faces to the sky. 


( 20 ) 


FLOWERS ARE LIKE PEOPLE 


Somehow or other, flowers are 
Like people, in a way; 

The happy, carefree people, 

Ever light-of-heart and gay: 

The dogwood blooms like myriads 
Of little faces say: 

Come out into the lovely out-of-doors, 
Be glad and gay. 

And if petunias could but speak, 

Most likely they would say: 

We shall be blossoming for you 
All summer, if we may. 

The poppy sleeps (as you and I) 

With petals folded, tight; 

At dawn awakes, unfolding as 
The day replaces night. 

Primroses, scattered o’er 

The meadows, delicate and fair, 

Like little angels are for all,— 

All over, everywhere. 

Somehow or other, flowers are 
Like people, in a way,— 

Ah, would that people, everywhere, 
Like flowers, might be gay. 


(21 ) 


TONGUES IN TREES 


Beneath the spreading branches of 
Her sturdy oak the day was warm, 

And to the westward, rain-dark clouds 
Bespoke the coming of the storm. 

No single leaflet stirred above her, 
Brooding stillness filled the air; 

A heaviness was over all 
And fell upon her, sitting there. 

In pensive mood she pondered the 
Perplexities of life, concerned 
With: reasonings of those who’d seek 
To block a chosen path,—<as planned; 
Dualities, however innocent, 

That quell life’s sweetest song; 

The tangled web of circumstance, 

Betimes irrevocably strong. 

Across the way the oleanders, 

Laden with abundant bloom, 

Presented beauty to the scene 

And offered all their sweet perfume. 

The ancient oak, of noble height, 

With branches lifted to the sky, 
Prolonged its shade into the shadows 
Of the lofty pine, nearby. 

The lawn that did disguise the wrinkled 
Earth with beauty, seemed to say: 
Without my lovely areas 
Of greensward where would children play? 


(22) 


Ah, but to sense within the God 
Who is revealed in all without, 
Thus to be rendered one with nature, 
Selfless, passionless—no doubt. 


(23 ) 


Three poems to Cynthia 

CALIFORNIA FLOWER 

’Tis April in Topanga and 
The bloom of California’s spring 
Has touched the highland hills and vales, 
The canyon walls—and everything. 

From yonder lofty summits to 
The surface of the ocean blue, 

The poppy, purple sage and lupins 
Lend their colors to the view. 

Somewhere within the fastnesses, 

Within a cozy place there is 
One little flower fairer than 
All other flowers of the land. 

What is this rare exquisite one 
Unfolding there beneath the sun, 
Caressed and kissed by balmy breezes 
Blowing inland from the sea ? 

Of all the mountain blooms the edelweis 
Is counted as most rare, 

But ev’n the wondrous edelweis 
With Cynthia cannot compare. 


( 24 ) 


HEART-ACHE 


The silver plane came sailing in, 
Alighted for its precious freight, 
And with a rush and roar of wind 
Was off into the sky again. 

I looked with longing as it flew 
Around the dome of azure blue, 
And as it sped into the west, 
Dissolving into nothingness. 

But why be sad ? perhaps I too 
Shall sail away into the blue 
To span the many, many miles 
That keep me O, so far from you. 


(25 ) 


SUBLIMATION 


My overwhelming love for you 
Is an unselfish one, ’tis true, 

So wherefore cruel fate bemoan 
Now that you’ve left me here alone ? 

I still may quickly send to you 

So many things you would enjoy: 
Perhaps a dainty dress or two, 

A picture-book, a brand-new toy. 

Your mother also will derive 
Enjoyment helping you undo 
The packages. ’Tis not so long 
Since she was little too,—like you. 


( 26 ) 


THE MOURNING DOVE 


The mourning dove that sings so softly 
From the bough of yonder tree, 

Combines both sweet and sad refrains 
Within his plaintive melody. 

So are my thoughts of you both sweet 
And sad: sweet with the memory 
Of you; sad, knowing that for yet awhile, 
With you I cannot be. 


( 27 ) 


THE URN 


The urn had been the center of 

Her mother’s pleasant garden, now, 
Within a new environment 

Seemed strangely out of place, somehow. 

The quaint old garden, she recalled, 

Would bloom awhile then fade away, 

But never in her mem’ry was 

The urn without its bright bouquet. 

The blossoms overhung the sides, 

Obscured the sculptor’s deft designs 
Of Bacchus, clustered grapes and wreathes 
Of twining vines, Acanthus leaves. 

Perennials her mother planted, 

Yet are blooming in the urn 
And there through all the years to come 
The blossoms will with spring return. 

The sunlight lends an added brightness 
To her cherished blooms at noon; 

By night the urn is dimly white 
Beneath the visiting moon. 


( 28 ) 



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THE CHURCH ON THE HILL 



The summer day now fades away, 

The evening shadows fall 

As church bells chime across the way 
For prayer, calling all. 

The day is ours, not so the night; 

’Tis comforting to hear 

The sacred song of twilight bells 
Upon the evening air. 

But hark, the knell of one lone bell 
Begins when the rest are done : 

’Tis from the negro’s church there on 
The hill against the sun. 

The timid tones, continuing, 

Become more sweet, less shrill 

Recalling gentle souls now in 
The churchyard on the hill. 

How strange the sound of a ringing bell,— 
A thing intangible, 

Remains the same when all is changed,— 

A thing unchangeable. 

The sun is down, the bell is still, 

But mingled from afar, 

Are cries of laughter, tinkling sounds 
Of banjo and guitar. 


( 29 ) 


FAITH 


The butter-colored butterfly 

Serenely drifts among the flowers, 
Unaware that hidden dangers 
Lie amid the leafy bowers. 

There the enemy, unseen, 

Alert within his silken lair, 

Awaits with innate subtlety 

The lovely creature to ensnare. 
How oft the web of circumstance 
Enfolds with thread so intricate, 
’Twould seem that, like the insect, man 
Is not the master of his fate. 

But He who clothes the grasses, feeds 
The fowls and sees the sparrow fall, 
Who stills the sea, arrays the lily,— 
Watcheth over all. 


( 30 ) 


LAYMAN’S OPINION 


‘Thus saith the Lord . . . ask for the old paths, 
where is the good way, walk therein and find rest 
for your souls.’ Jer. 6 :16. 

They said it was a work of art, 

But surely, looking, one might see 

That in the painting truth 
Had forfeited to unreality. 

One hears, at times, the measured 
Dissonances of a symphony, 

And marvels that the unsweet sounds 
Achieved are really meant to be. 

* * * * 

The sunset casts a crimson glow 

Of lovliness on all below; 

The moon appears, a silver light, 

Behind the forest of the night. 

One hears the whispering of pines, 

The endless murmur of the sea, 

The laugh of happy children and 
The bird that sings in yonder tree. 

* * * * 

The Master Mind creates with beauty 
And simplicity of line; 

Well might His creatures emulate 
The works of Him who is Divine. 


( 31 ) 


IDEA 


Were I an artist bent upon 

Creating ‘Pink Camellias’ from 
My pallette, would I paint the leaves 
And petals of but single blooms? 

Ah no, instead I should portray 
A fairy-land where children play 
And stoop to gather fallen flow’rs 
To string into a lovely lei. 

My ‘Roses’ would be roses plus 

A quaint old-fashioned garden where 
A woman bends to gather armfuls 
For the children standing there. 

My ‘moonlight’ would portray the shadows 
Of a tall magnolia tree 
Upon a wide veranda where 
Two lovers dream the night away. 

’Tis well and good transcribing nature 
(Always handsomely designed), 

My opus also would reveal 

The hidden heart, the secret mind. 


( 32 ) 


INSPIRATION 


At times she says : the muse is gone, 
Euterpe has forsaken me; 

No more shall I be moved to pour 
My musings into poetry. 

And then she sees the rains descend 
Upon the parched and thirsty land; 

She notes the lightning’s flash, the peal 
And roar of passing thunder and 

Again she feels the pow’r and majesty 
That guides the universe; 

Again would fain acclaim the wonder 
Of God’s deity in verse. 


( 33 ) 


TO TSCHAIKOVSKY 


The Russian country is majestic and 
Magnificent, you say; 

Did love of native land inspire 
The music even now I play 
And, hearing, am transported to 
A realm to which the soul may wing 
Its flight and there delight in tunes 
The heav’nly choristers should sing? 

Well must you have revered mankind, 
Bequeathing all a legacy 
Of melodies so sweet as to 
Imbue the heart with ecstasy. 

The soil of Klin is hallowed ground; 

There you, the lonely heart, alone, 
Composed. O proud must be the nation that 
Can claim you for its own. 


( 34 ) 


HEIRLOOMS 


These treasures she, of late, received 
Are truly lovely, all agree, 

But dear they are not only for 
Their loveliness and artistry: 

The vases are not only rare 
Because of pale pink chinaware 
Exquisitely embossed and wreathed 
In fragile Meisen, silver-leaved; 

And neither are the paintings 
Only well beloved because they show 
That someone poured his very soul 
Into their making, long ago; 

It isn’t only that the chairs 
Of rose-wood and mahogany 
Are made of wood that has withstood 
The usage of a century; 

But because of long companionship 
These things are also very dear, 

And time can ne’er efface the place 
They hold in mem’ry’s yesteryear. 


( 35 ) 


TREASURES FOR ALL 


The crimson rose that grows beside 
Her door-way is as lovely as 
Its counterpart would be composed 
Of rubies centered with topaz. 

Ambrosial perfumes that rejoiced 
The heart of Solomon were not 
More wonderfully fragrant than 
Her own tea-olive’s subtle scent. 

Is there a master potter in 

Old Sevres or Dresden who presumes 
To boast a substance comparable 
To petals of magnolia blooms ? 

The harp is sweet and did, of old, 

The heart of Saul with gladness fill; 
But mocking-birds about her home 
Make music that is sweeter still. 

What earthly artist could devine 
The intricacies of design 
As does the passion-flower yield, 

This lowly blossom of the field ? 

A wealth of treasures God has given 
To His creatures here below; 

Upon the lowliest doth He 

His many gracious gifts bestow. 


( 36 ) 


FORETHOUGHT 


I sing of long lost kinsmen,— 

Even some of unknown names, 

Who, for posterity, encased 
Their images in sturdy frames. 

That they were lovely, elegant, 

Their countenances clearly show; 

And but for these small photographs 
This pleasant truth I would not know. 

These faces, from their gilded frames, 
Some smiling, others pensive, sad, 
Look into mine and seem to say: 

“You are of me” and I am glad. 


(37 ) 


SPIDER LILIES 


When summer’s done and in the air 
We feel the dying of the year, 

Ah, then it is the season when 
Red spider lilies reappear. 

Within the cool and quiet earth 

All year they’ve lain forgot, then lo, 
Along the hedges over night, 

They’ve gathered in a crimson row. 

When Ceres from celestial heights 
Perceived Procerpina in fight, 
Relenting, she allows the growth 
Of this last offering to earth. 


( 38 ) 


THE HUNTERS 


The time is very near, my dear, 

When once again we two shall trail 
Across the fields and through the forest 
Hunting down the timid quail. 

How many autumn afternoons 

We’ve roamed the country-side together, 
You intent upon the hunt 

While I enjoy the lovely weather. 

Over barren cotton fields, 

Beyond the stacks of hay, piled high, 

The sycamores are golden and 
The oaks are red against the sky. 

The once bright flowers of the fields 
Are now but seeds within a pod, 

But here and there a ling’ring daisy 
Mingles with the golden-rod. 

With dog and gun we homeward turn, 

The chill of night comes o’er the earth, 
And O, how good to contemplate 
At home the fire upon the hearth. 


( 39 ) 


LATE AFTERNOON 


A farewell gleam of evening sun-light 
Penetrates her window-pane 
And seems to glide across the room 
Within a bright gold-dusty lane. 

And as it sheds its beams about, 

A sort of brilliant twilight reigns; 

The paintings, books, the walls and all 
Are as if splashed with golden strains. 
It lights a crystal bowl that holds 
The season’s first chrysanthemums, 
Depicts the shade of shutters there 
Upon the carpet of her rooms. 

Beyond the window-pane she sees 
The red and gold of autumn trees 
Made even more resplendant by 
Reflections from the evening sky. 

The sun grows older; soon to fade, 
Hangs low upon the firmament. 

She sips her cup of tea content,— 

Content with her environment. 

The End. 


( 40 ) 

















































































































































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